


We're a Happy Family

by UmberRumbler



Category: Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Language, Family, Family Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UmberRumbler/pseuds/UmberRumbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't much of a babysitter, but he makes the effort for his niece. It's only one weekend, yeah? So what's the worst that could happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're a Happy Family

**Author's Note:**

> This work takes place between Hellblazer issues #3 and #4.

He almost walked out the door without the damn alligator. Had the doorknob in one hand, keys to his flat in the other, suitcase at his feet, when he paused. The feeling that he was forgetting something tickled his mind. John stood there, running down the list, ticking the boxes, and then he remembered. Released the knob and turned to the tiny, filthy sitting room. He had set it on the coffee table, so he wouldn’t forget, and thank Christ he hadn’t. John shuffled through the rat’s nest of papers, overdue bills, stolen books, pushing aside cold mugs and the heaping ashtray. And there it was, underneath the trite, modern witchcraft book that the girl in the shop given him the other day at discount because they had flirted for ten minutes. She was a sweet bird, had written her number on the flap, even, but her taste in magic was rather pedestrian. John had thumbed through it the night before and tossed it aside before falling asleep on the sofa, tossed it right on top of—

The little wooden alligator. He picked it up, brushing flakes of ash off its smooth, dark back before sliding it into his coat pocket. Had bought it at a street market in Dakar, thinking it would be a nice gift for Gemma. Normally, the trinkets he encountered in his travels he’d want to keep fifty miles from his niece, on account of them being cursed or some bollocks, but he saw this one and thought of her. It was so small and inconsequential, but seemed somehow important. When it came to his family, for better or worse, he wasn’t going to ignore instinct. So along it went to dreary old London in his luggage, set out special so he wouldn’t forget it when he took the train up to do a spot of baby sitting for the weekend.

Cheryl had rung him up the other day, said she and Tony had some sort of holy-rolling retreat planned, but it was no-kids-allowed, and the friend who was going to watch our Gemma was in hospital with gout or the measles or tuberculosis or some other bloody unlikely disease. Would he come up to Liverpool for two days and look after his niece? She missed him terribly and would be so delighted to see him and frankly, it might do her some good to spend some time with her uncle because Cheryl and Tony were worried about her lately, coming home late after school, coming home late after her errands, coming home late from the park, and she only ten years old.

‘Yeah, ‘s fine, luv,’ John had said. ‘I got nothing on, anyway. Might do to get out of the city for a bit, anyway.’ He had briefly considered ringing the girl from the occult bookshop, but more as an antidote to complete, howling boredom than anything else.

‘Well, it’d do you good, too, coming home for a bit, John.’ Cheryl had replied. ‘You stay down there too long a time, you’re apt to start talking like a city boy.’

John had smiled. ‘Aw, fuck off out of it, Cher. There’s no danger of that. I’ll take an early train Saturday morning.’

‘Thank you, John, you’re a hero. And you best not be forgetting your ticket because you were out getting pissed the night before, brother mine.’

But he had his ticket, or at least cash-in-hand, and he had the alligator, and he wasn’t destroyed with a hangover. Just a dull spike behind the left eye, the ghost of last night’s lonely whisky. John nodded to himself, satisfied. Went to the door, picked up his suitcase, and stepped out into the city.

 

* * *

 

He slept on the train, took a cab from the station. Gazed at the shiny, new, little houses that made up Cheryl’s posh neighborhood. They screamed their modernity and gentrification in the key of fresh whitewash and large gardens. The driver stopped at the address and as John got out of the cab, the morning sun began to fight its way through the clouds. He paid the man and made his way up the walk. Hesitated at the front door, took a drag off his cigarette, and pitched the end into the rose bushes before ringing the bell.

His brother-in-law opened the door. ‘John,’ Tony said.

‘All right, Tony?’ John said.

They stared each other down, Tony’s face contorting into a dour, lemon-sucking expression. John felt a smirk rising to his lips, and he stilled it before it could do damage. Didn’t want to get to rowing on the stoop of his sister’s new house at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. ‘Looks like we’ve caught a spot of lovely weather today, eh?’ he said.

Tony’s throat worked, but he was cut off before he could speak.

‘Uncle John, Uncle John, Uncle John!’ Gemma shouted, barreling down the hall, pushing her father aside, and tackling her uncle with a hug. ‘I’m so happy you’re here!’

‘Hullo, luvvy,’ John said, hugging her back, ‘Thrilled to see you, too. Christ, you’ve gotten strong! You nearly knocked me over, like.’

Gemma giggled. ‘Did not!’

‘Did too. If you’d gotten a proper run-up, I’d’ve been arse over teakettle into your mum’s roses, no lies.’

Tony cleared his throat and shot John a look of poisonous disapproval.

‘Sorry, mate,’ John said. ‘I’ll try to tone down the language, then, shall I?’

‘If you’d be so kind,’ Tony replied.

Gemma turned to her father. ‘’S all right, Dad. I don’t mind.’

‘I know you don’t, dear, but rude a rude vocabulary bespeaks a rude nature.’

Cheryl appeared in the doorway and laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘That’s enough, you two, come off it now. All right, John? So glad you could make it. Tony, let him in, oh, and do put the kettle back on for us, will you?’

‘Sure, darling,’ Tony replied and stalked off, no doubt to enjoy the John-free kitchen.

Gemma took John by the hand and yanked him inside. ‘Come in, Uncle John. I wanna give you a tour.’

‘Of course, luv. I’ll just give your mum a hug, first though, yeah?’ He gave his niece’s hand a squeeze, set his case down, and hugged his sister with one arm. ‘How’re yeh, Cheryl?’

‘Fine, John. Just fine. Thanks a million for lending us a hand.’ She released their embrace and swatted her brother’s shoulder. ‘Now go on, you two. Off on your tour. The cab’ll be here for Tony and me in half an hour, so there’s time enough for that.’

Gemma yanked John’s arm. He felt tendons strain to keep his shoulder in its socket. ‘Come on, come on, come on!’ Gemma yelled, galloping down the hall as John trotted after, trying not to trip on the carpet.

She led him through every corner of the house, concluding in the sanctuaries of sanctuaries—her bedroom. It was clean, but like the rest of the place, achingly plain. No posters on the walls, only a few of Gemma’s own drawings hanging near the window. They sat on the tiny bed and when John seemed to pull the alligator out of her ear, Gemma’s eyes went wide. ‘How did you do that?’ she asked with both skepticism and wonder in her voice. At ten, she was too old to be amused and too young not to enjoy the illusion.

‘Magic,’ John said.

‘No, not magic,’ replied Gemma. ‘There’s no such thing, is there.’

John shrugged. ‘If y’like. At any rate, this is for you, luv.’ He handed her the little wooden carving. ‘’S from Dakar, in Senegal.’

She took it delicately, turned it over in her hands, slender fingers caressing the smooth wood. ‘Where’s Senegal?’

‘It’s in West Africa, Gem.’

She sighed, awed that such a small and simple token could have originated in a place so far away, have travelled so many miles in her uncle’s luggage. ‘Thank you, Uncle John, it’s beautiful. What should I name it?’

John raised an eyebrow. ‘Does it need a name?’

‘Think so, yeah.’

‘Well, in that case, I’d not think too hard about it. Names’re powerful things, luv. When the right one comes to you, you’ll know.’

Gemma frowned, digesting this, and nodded. She slipped the little wooden alligator into the pocket of her blue jeans.

Cheryl’s voice from the foot of the stairs. ‘Gem? John? The taxi’s here! Tony and I are off!’

Gemma bounced off the bed and thundered down to the ground floor. John followed, thankful that his arm was no longer subjected to his niece’s enthusiasm. Gemma and her parents said their goodbyes, Tony telling her to help with chores and say her prayers before bed, Cheryl reminding her to behave for her uncle, that they left a list of emergency numbers on the kitchen table with the address of the retreat and do ring if there’s any trouble at all. Gemma made her dutiful nods and requisite agreement, the hugs, the kisses, the I-love-yous, the have-funs. As Tony loaded their bags out to the cab, Cheryl turned to John and gave him another hug. ‘You ring if you need anything, John. There’s a couple quid on the table, too, for a pizza or the cinema or the like, and don’t you go spending it on your Silk Cut.’

‘You wound me, Cher. Your own blood, like!’ John put his hand to his heart in feigned offence and winked at his sister.

Cheryl swatted him again. ‘Bastard. Now you two be good. We’ll be back tomorrow evening, so.’ Gemma and John walked her to the door.

‘Bye, Mum!’ Gemma said, waving. ‘I’ll miss you!’

‘Take, care, darling, I’ll miss you, too!’ Cheryl got halfway down the walk before stopping and turning. She fixed John with her cold stare, the one he remembered from when they were kids, when she found out that he had snuck into her room and read her diary, that cutting, filleting, blue stare that sent a million-some volts of slow-burning rage howling through the air between them as her face and posture remained poised and composed. The stare that said all hell was coming to him in a flood of lightning and destruction, but not yet. Not when he was ready for it. That an expected retribution was too good for him, too kind. Cheryl’s words set the hairs on his neck crawling. ‘And this house better not be burned down when we get back, John. Be a luv and make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah?’

John’s cheeky retorts escaped him. He couldn’t summon his usual sarcasm or artificial levity, couldn’t do anything but nod to his sister and say, ‘No worries, Cher. We’ll still be here.’

He hoped the pressure he felt between his eyes was only the swan song of his mild hangover and not the pinch of a premonition triggered by Cheryl’s farewell.

Christ, did he ever hope.


End file.
